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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29658909">trapped in a metaphor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/automatronic/pseuds/automatronic'>automatronic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>12x100, Existential Horror, Gen, Incineration, NaN and Wyatt are seperate people, potential warning for unreality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:27:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29658909</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/automatronic/pseuds/automatronic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>NaN saw outside the bridge. They, or who they used to be, looked too close. It ripped them apart.</p><p>(twelve scenes with a glitch that should have never happened)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaylen Hotdogfingers &amp; NaN, NaN &amp; Morrow Doyle, NaN &amp; Wyatt Mason</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>trapped in a metaphor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>the 12x100 format was created by <a>Lewis Attilio</a>, who's original baseball fiction is absolutely worth checking out.<br/>my characterization of NaN is quite different from the more popular fanon. This version knows that they're a bunch of numbers in a simulation, and has to balance that with also being a person that exists within the narrative that us as fans create around blaseball. Heed the unreality warning, there are many references to the character existing within the simulation and  "not being real"<br/>title is from I Fight Dragon's "New Brain"<br/>you can talk to me @absolutelybees on twitter or at <a href="%E2%80%9Dbeelijah.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D">here</a> on tumblr.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>NaN saw outside the bridge. They, or who they used to be, looked too close. It ripped them apart. They know that they are data in a simulation that isn’t running.</p><p>Their teammates do not want to be told that. They’re recovering, too, from what was done to them. They don’t want to hear the emptiness that stands in the place of Wyatt Mason tell them that numbers can’t feel trauma.</p><p>So they sit by themself in a room that doesn’t exist, and wait for games to start again. They are not lonely, NaN tells themself. Numbers cannot be lonely.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>They get a visitor over the Siesta. Morrow Doyle enters their room without permission, sits on the floor across from NaN, and asks:</p><p>"You saw the simulation too, didn't you?"</p><p>NaN doesn't look them in the eyes. They don't want to face the person who shattered reality and then willed it rightwise. They don't want to see what Morrow did right that they did wrong.</p><p>"We aren't really here. This isn't the game. It doesn't matter."</p><p>Morrow's response is not the concerned pity that they've gotten used to, but rather, a laugh.</p><p>"Kid, it matters if we make it matter."</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>NaN is trying. They know they cannot be better; no amount of effort and training will make them more than a half-star batter. Only a blessing can do that, and blessings are not something they control. But they are doing what they can, to convince their teammates that they are putting in an effort to be better. It’s important to the Tacos. NaN is trying to make it important to them, too.</p><p>At their first at bat, they let the ball soar past them twice without swinging, and then the simulation determines that they reach first on the fielder's choice.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>NaN is supposed to repent, before every game. That’s what it says, on their player page. It’s just set dressing; narrative fluff. NaN wouldn’t bother with the fiction that exists outside of the simulation, but they have to. People want to see them as a person, with a life and an interiority. With the stroke of a pen and a flourish of the keyboard, they are made into more than just stats.</p><p>NaN does not want that. They don’t want to be a part of a narrative that finds them at fault. They want absolution from the story around them.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>There are many versions of what feedback looks like, many interpretations of what it means when reality flickers, and NaN hates all of them. Feedback rattles inside their head and grates against their skin. </p><p>People are looking for them. It’s Rat Mason who finally finds them sitting under a desk in the stadium’s office, jacket pulled over their head. NaN is afraid that she’s going to tell the rest of the team. NaN is afraid that she still blames them. </p><p>Instead, she silently curls up next to them. NaN gently places their hand on her back, and she nods, understanding.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>The simulation doesn’t give fielders real positions, but Morrow still waves at them from third base. Even though it’s not real, NaN still waves back.</p><p>NaN remembers how Wyatt Mason had felt, watching someone burst into flame. They remember the smell, the screaming, the ash scattering across the field.</p><p>None of that actually happened. One bundle of stats was replaced with another. It wasn’t a real death. It did not matter. </p><p>Fate runs its numbers, and Morrow is marked for death. NaN sees the pillar of smoke on the field, and holds on to <em> it doesn’t matter </em> like a lifeline.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>There are pictures in the locker room of the team at the start of every season. They're some of the few existing photos of Wyatt Mason as they once were. </p><p>NaN stands in the same place as Wyatt had, in the picture from Season Four. NaN wears the same face that Wyatt once had. They'd look the same, if the picture of NaN wasn't crunched with digital artifacts. They'd look the same, if NaN knew how to make a smile reach their eyes.</p><p>NaN can hear Wyatt, crying out under the Feedback. They hope that Wyatt can hear them too.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>The Tacos are the worst team in the league. It’s a part of their identity, at this point. The team and the fans wouldn’t know how to respond if they got good. </p><p>It makes sense that the Tacos be the ones to experiment with the Idol Board, then. They have nothing to lose.</p><p>It was the fans who made the decision, but the Tacos get characterized as making a willing sacrifice. Despite lacking any agency in the matter, the peanut admonishes <em> them </em>for withholding their labor. NaN realizes that the Shelled One is not the god they should be fighting.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>They’re with the rest of the team when the regular season ends. The nervous chatter is cut off by a droning noise. Feedback, but louder, closer, sharper, like a chisel against their temple. Someone moves to steady them, but their hand touches NaN shoulder and then goes <em> through </em> it. </p><p>They stumble forward, struggling to right themself. They can’t ground themself, they keep finding themself slightly off from where they think they are. <em> Flickering </em> , they think they hear someone say. <em> Permanently </em>.</p><p>NaN’s mouth is moving. Their voice is coming out, but not their words.</p><p>“<em> Hi friends, </em> ” they say, “ <em> It is Wyatt </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>NaN is not good at talking to people. They know that they're off-putting. They know that they’re bad with strangers.</p><p>They’re staring at the wall, the floor, anything but the members of the team they’ve been inflicted on. NaN is the first person to feedback onto the Wings, ever. Flickering onto their roster has put a spotlight on a team that prefers to fly under the radar.</p><p>“NaN,” Burke Gonazles approaches them after the game. He seems as uncomfortable with eye contact as NaN is, but there’s still warmth in his expression. “It’s gonna be alright. Welcome to the team.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>NaN doesn't watch the finals, but they can feel when they end. The words that aren't their words ring louder in their head. <em> Incoming. </em> </p><p>They could ignore it. Data does not have to feel fear. But their new team— their new friends, maybe—can't do that. The Lovers have to live with the narrative that this will manifest around them.</p><p>They rush into the common area to find the team sitting around the television. Kichiro turns to face them, fear painted across her face. NaN catches a quick glimpse of the broadcast, before they hear their own voice speak:</p><p>"<em> Have hope" </em></p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>"They're calling us heroes" Jaylen remarks, unprompted.</p><p>Wyatt Mason is a hero. They engineered the downfall of a god. They found a way to release the Hall Stars. They made themself matter. They saved the day.</p><p>"We're not" they respond, because it's the truth. They didn't do anything. They were a messenger because it was what others maneuvered them to be.</p><p>They thought she'd be mad to hear that, but Jaylen just laughs. It throws them off balance, makes them want to explain.</p><p>"Wyatt is. I'm not Wyatt. I won't ever be Wyatt again."</p><p>"Good. You shouldn't have to be."</p><p> </p>
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